


System Down

by WizardSandwich



Series: Prowl Week [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cortical Psychic Patch, Gen, Injury, Self-Sacrifice, but mostly? this universe is Just For Me, but only like a little i guess, idw and tfp elements, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardSandwich/pseuds/WizardSandwich
Summary: Day 1 - CrashThe lights go out. The Ark's bridge is left in total darkness.
Relationships: Blaster & Prowl, Jazz & Prowl, Mirage & Prowl
Series: Prowl Week [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703245
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74
Collections: Prowl Week





	System Down

**Author's Note:**

> posted this a bit early but it's sunday somewhere

The lights go out without warning. Bots scramble to find the issue, headlights clicking on where they have them. The whole bridge is consumed by the sound of clacking keys and buttons by the time Prowl’s own are on.

“Reports?” he asks the room in general. “Does anyone have power?”

“Power’s off to communications,” Blaster calls to him.

Sixgun’s voice follows his, “Same here, sir. Navigation’s out.”

Slowly but surely every bot calls back with their status. All of the bridge’s systems are out, including the general ones. The door’s keypad is no longer alight, not responding when anybot tries to use or hack it.

“Do you want me to break it, sir?” a large mech—Tellurium—asks. His expression is worried and concerned as he looks down at Prowl.

“Yes, please do,” Prowl says. “We can always fix it later. For now, we need to see if this is an external issue or an internal one. The fastest way to do that is to speak to Wheeljack.”

Tellurium nods, barely noticeable in the low light of three sets of headlights. He takes a step back before moving forward, arm swinging in a harsh punch. The door dents but otherwise remains in place.

“Again,” Prowl orders.

Tellurium complies, hitting the door thrice more before his fist makes a hole. He hisses as he pulls his servo out of the door, waving it as if he could shake away the pain.

“That good?” he asks.

Prowl nods, “Yes. Excellent. Thank you.”

Tellurium takes a step back. Sixgun steps forward. By far, he is the biggest out of the mechs that remain on the bridge, besides Tellurium, who carefully prods at his servo.

“Let me help,” Prowl says, as Sixgun begins to pull at the edges of the hole.

Together, they manage to pry the metal back enough for a smaller mech to fit through it. Blaster has to lift Steeljaw, but the symbiont slips out of the room as soon as he is able, destination determined with a, “Go find Wheeljack.”

“How long do you think we’ll be stuck in here?” Blaster asks. “Because if the entire ship’s this dark, life support and the other essential systems will have to come back online first.”

“Yes, they will,” Prowl agrees. “But, as I said, we need to see where the issue lies.”

Blaster nods, his expression unreadable in the almost darkness, “Yeah. If it’s an external issue, it’ll take longer to fix, right?”

Prowl says, “Exactly. We’d have to figure out how to power the hatches and the ship’s magnets before we could even consider fixing it.”

“That’s… going to suck slag,” Blaster says, nowhere near as eloquent as he might have been all those vorns ago, when they’d first met.

“Yes,” Prowl agrees. “It will.”

They fall silent, other than the sound of Tellurium and another mech trying to make a makeshift splint from whatever they can find. Tellurium would likely have to see a medic, Prowl knows. From what Prowl had seen, his plating had fractured. However, all they could do right now is wait.

Steeljaw comes through the hole in the door breems later. Outside, Prowl can see the flash of one of Wheeljack’s high-powered lanterns.

“Good job, buddy,” Blaster coos, picking Steeljaw up.

Prowl turns back to the door as Blaster opens his chest. “Wheeljack?” he tries tentatively, unsure if it truly is Wheeljack.

“Hey, Prowl,” Wheeljack says. “You bots going to be okay in there for a few more breems? I’ve got a welder, but it’ll take at least five to get you out.”

“We will live,” Prowl says, “though, a mech was injured making that hole.”

Wheeljack makes a low whistling sound as he starts to cut through the rest of the door. “I’d imagine so,” he says. “These doors are supposed to take a pounding.”

“Is anyone else out there with you?” Prowl asks. “You can send them to the lab to get my rifle.”

Prowl’s acid pellet rifle had been jammed during his biquartexly testing session. He’d taken it to Wheeljack to avoid any unfortunate cartridge explosions.

“Blast doors. It would take me longer to pry through those than it would to just get you out,” Wheeljack says.

Prowl nods, though Wheeljack cannot see it. “You were in the rec room then?”

“Yeah,” Wheeljack replies. “I was taking my Ratchet-ordered break when the power went out.”

Prowl can only assume that the power had gone out everywhere on the Ark then. The bridge and the rec room were not necessarily close to one another, separated by the medibay and at least a dozen offices.

“Is Perceptor trying to figure out the issue?” Prowl asks.

Wheeljack hums, “Yeah. He thinks the Ark’s systems crashed. Said he’s going to have to figure out a way to reboot the essential systems and then figure out the error in the code. And write some failsafes so this doesn’t happen again.”

“How long will that take?”

Wheeljack’s voice loses its normal cheerfulness. “Longer than we have,” he says. “The next time we go through an asteroid field or even just want energon? We’re slagged. The Ark doesn’t run on a backup system because of how old it is.”

Prowl’s doorwings lower as he processes that. They wouldn’t last long with a crew of over a hundred. The ship had to constantly make and supply energon. Without that, they’d last a couple of stellar cycles at most.

“Are there any solutions?” Sixgun asks, no longer content to sit quietly. “If I can help, I will. Whatever it takes to get the Ark running again.”

The door falls forward, finally. There is nothing to hide the dejection that they can all see in Wheeljack’s frame. “Nothing we can do without a system to run the Ark. We need something that can run this whole ship. That’s almost a thousand individual systems.”

Wheeljack pauses then, optics brightening with an epiphany almost as soon as he’s finished speaking. His gaze locks onto Prowl. His optics, bright blue in the darkness, read with something that Prowl can’t decipher.

“You can track over eight hundred objects, right?” Wheeljack asks, some miniscule excitement hidden in his voice.

Prowl nods. “Yes.” It dawns on him, then, what Wheeljack might be thinking. “Are you implying that I would be able to manage the Ark’s systems?”

“I don’t know. It’s worth a try,” he says, expression slipping into deep thought and consideration. “It’ll give Perceptor time to go through the Ark’s systems.”

“How long will I need to be attached to the Ark?” Prowl runs the calculations himself. He doesn’t know much about ships or coding, but he knows enough. He’s just not sure how long he’ll last with all the data running through his processor.

“A few stellar cycles. Maybe an orn,” Wheeljack says. Not long, but long enough.

“Alright,” Prowl agrees. “Take me to the main system.”

The halls are empty when they leave. Prowl sends the bridge crew to the rec room where Smokescreen has apparently gathered as many bots as he can. Blaster, of all mechs, tries to protest both that order and Prowl’s decision, but Prowl only waves him off. It would not do to start second guessing.

When they pass the rec room, Jazz slips past Blaster to Prowl’s side, followed by both Mirage and Skids. “Hey, boss,” Jazz says. “What’s going on out here?”

Blaster pauses just outside the rec room’s doorway. “What’s going on is Prowl’s going to get himself killed,” he grumbles.

Jazz turns to face Blaster, expression unreadable. “Now,” he says, when he looks at Prowl again, “why on Cybertron would he do that?”

Prowl straightens, prepared to defend his choice to Jazz, who he may respect but also outranks. “The Ark needs a system to run essential functions until Perceptor can find the error in the current systems. I’m the logical choice.”

Jazz hums, his mouth twisting into a frown. He clearly understands the implications. “Will he live?” he asks, turning to Wheeljack.

Wheeljack shrugs helplessly. “I just don’t know. I’ve never hooked up a bot up to this big of a mainframe. But without him, we’ll be sitting cyberducks.”

“What happens to the Autobots if he dies?” Mirage points out, tone demanding an answer. “He’s the best tactician we have _and_ our second-in-command.”

“The Autobots will live,” Prowl says. Because they would. Trailbreaker, Smokescreen, and the Ops bots were all adept and crafty planners. They could not process and plan the way Prowl did, but they would be enough.

Skids’ doorwings lower gently, giving an unfortunate acceptance of what is to come. Even Jazz cannot find an argument within himself. Mirage’s expression twists into an almost gentle anger. They know this is life or death. There is no time to debate or to come up with a better plan.

“Come back alive,” Mirage commands.

Prowl nods and acquiesces, “I will try.”

Mirage looks as if he will say something else. “Mirage and I will go to the upper rec room and the barracks and do a helm count,” Skids says, before Mirage can. Skids was probably the only Ops bot who had learnt when they’d lost an argument with Prowl.

Prowl nods, “Go then.”

Skids grabs Mirage’s arm, pulling him away. Mirage does not protest.

“I’m coming with you,” Jazz says, when Prowl turns to him again.

“Fine,” Prowl says. Jazz doesn’t seem offended by his curtness, understanding the urgency as they set off. Even if he didn’t, he can read the apology in Prowl’s doorwings.

They reach the mainframe, in the heart of the Ark, only breems later. The door has already been pried open, likely by Perceptor and whoever else he deemed helpful. Prowl wonders what they used to pry open the heavy-duty security door.

“Perceptor,” Prowl calls as they enter.

His headlights shine on the mech, his red paint reflective in the darkness. Perceptor does not turn to face him. “I take it you’ve all arrived at the same conclusion that I have?” Perceptor asks in lieu of a greeting.

“Yes,” Prowl says.

Perceptor gestures toward a large cable that Prowl vaguely recognizes. It is a modified cortical psychic patch cable. Prowl remembers that they’d stolen it from one of Shockwave’s labs. Shockwave had used it for extracting data from bots without being directly connected to them. Prowl himself had been on the other side of it.

“The other end is already plugged into the mainframe’s main port,” Perceptor says, as he finally turns to him. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Is there any other way?” Jazz asks, his helm turning from Perceptor to Wheeljack.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any other solutions at the moment,” Perceptor admits, hesitantly, as if it pains him to say.

Wheeljack says, “Nothing new.”

Prowl nods. “Then do it,” he says, before Jazz can find a new reason to protest.

Wheeljack slips behind him, ever careful of Prowl’s doorwings. Prowl can hear him pick up the patch and feels the cold metal as it presses against the back of his helm. It’s a horrible sensation that Prowl had never hoped to feel again.

“Ready?” Wheeljack asks.

“Ready,” Prowl confirms.

In the next moment Prowl’s processor is overrun by a series numbers and processes. He can barely sort through it all. It’s different from the things that Prowl is used to. He can feel and hear and smell the way his frame overloads with electricity, like an overblown circuit. Then, he can’t feel anything at all.

All that’s left for him to feel is the data and systems. His frame is a distant thing. It is there, he knows, but he can’t feel it. Not really. It is, suddenly, not his own.

Prowl throws off the odd lack of sensation. He starts digging and tries to find every important system the Ark has. Powering them on is his first and only priority. His awareness lessens even more as he becomes focused on the Ark’s systems.

Prowl isn’t sure how much time passes. The mainframe has an internal clock, of course, but he puts all of his attention into trying to keep the Ark running. It takes all of his focus to start up the engines and shields and energon converters. Time is not important.

He is yanked from tenderly caring for the Ark without warning. It burns his processor, in a way, to have this taken away, to be suddenly stripped of data and duty. He has made himself at home in the Ark’s systems, caring for the bots he loves in this way that he has to, surrounded by lines of code.

The pain that greets him when he comes online, however, reminds him that he is a mech and not a system. Every sensor seems to return to feeling at all once. Every part of his frame flares in excruciating pain before it dies down again. He cannot turn his optics on. He is left to the darkness and pain. Something—a servo, maybe—touches his side and the broken sensors only vaguely register it as pain.

When he comes to awareness again, he is greeted by the medibay ceiling. He hears voices, but it takes a moment for Prowl to recognize them.

“—not sure how long he’ll have to stay,” First Aid says. Prowl thinks that he might be referring to him.

“Tell me when he onlines?” Jazz asks.

“I will.”

Prowl huffs. “I am online,” he says. His voice comes out a bit rough and staticky, but otherwise fine.

“Oh, you are,” First Aid says. “Try not to use your vocalizer. It needs more time to reintegrate into your systems. Do you want to sit up?”

Prowl nods. Both First Aid and Jazz come to either of his sides. They grab Prowl’s arms. Together, they lift him into a sitting position. First Aid says, “I’ll hold him. Get some pillows from the storage closet in the back.”

Jazz pauses for a klik, but releases him. “I’ll be right back, Prowler,” he says, as if attempting reassurance. Prowl does not know whether it is for Prowl or for himself.

“Of course,” Prowl says, disregarding First Aid’s orders.

First Aid huffs, “I told you not to speak.”

Prowl almost opens his mouth to reply but a harsh look from First Aid shuts him up.

“You were badly damaged,” First Aid says, after a moment. “The Ark’s mainframe overloaded your frame. A bot isn’t meant to have that much electrical charge in their frame. We’re very lucky your spark didn’t give out. I had to do a lot of overhaul.”

Prowl can’t resist speaking again, question on his glossa, “Ratchet sent the right parts for you to do it?”

First Aid says, “Prowl,” as if he’s scolding a newspark. Prowl isn’t quite sure if it’s a good or a bad thing that he feels suitably chastised. Prowl lowers his helm to signify his submission.

“But, yes, he did. He even came to the Ark with the parts,” First Aid says. “He’s in the rec room right now. He insisted on performed the more delicate surgeries.” Fondly, he shakes his helm. “Slagger.”

Prowl nods in acknowledgement. His doorwings’ sensors are still off, but he can still feel when Jazz comes back, moving behind Prowl to organize the pillows.

“Is this good?” Jazz asks First Aid.

First Aid looks at the mountain of pillows, nodding his approval. “Great,” First Aid says, gently helping Prowl lean back.

When Prowl is comfortable and propped up, First Aid lets him go. “I’ll go tell the others you’re awake,” he says. Prowl nods, the only thing he truly can do if he can’t speak. His doorwings are trapped between his frame and the mountain of pillows.

“I was worried,” Jazz says, a few kliks after First Aid leaves. He sounds worn out. “I saw Wheeljack start the patch and suddenly your frame was crackling with electricity. Your optics and headlights broke and it all smelt like burning.”

Jazz looks away, looking more vulnerable than Prowl has ever seen him. “I thought you were dead,” he says quietly, “but then the Ark’s systems came online. Perceptor said that wouldn’t have happened if you were dead.”

Prowl lifts his servo to rest it on Jazz’s arm. It hurts a bit, but it’s more than worth getting Jazz’s attention. Jazz looks down at him, visor bright. Prowl holds out his arms, a gesture he knows is almost universal for inviting hugs.

Jazz almost lunges, but he stops himself short, likely all too aware of Prowl’s delicate state. Slowly, he leans forward to meet the gesture, wrapping his arms around Prowl’s waist and awkwardly twisting around Prowl’s chest. He presses his face against the top of Prowl’s hood.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Jazz chokes out. Prowl rests a servo on Jazz’s back.

They’re like that for only a moment before Mirage appears. He straightens from his position against the wall, optics on Jazz and Prowl. “I see you’ve kept your promise,” Mirage says, stepping to the side of Prowl’s medical berth.

“He can’t talk,” Jazz informs, voice almost muffled against Prowl’s plating.

“I heard,” he says. He had likely been in the medibay even before Prowl had onlined.

Mirage moves to sit on the medical berth. It isn’t large, but Mirage makes do. He sits at the end of it, resting a servo on one of Prowl’s legs. The weight is reassuring and almost comforting.

“Does First Aid know you're here?” Prowl asks.

Mirage’s servo comes to Prowl’s knee to pinch the kibble. “Quiet,” Mirage chides. “And no. He said he was only going to allow on visitor at a time for now. He doesn’t want you to get overwhelmed.”

Jazz looks up at him. His smile is soft and subtle, but there. “Breaking the rules?” he teases gently.

“Perhaps,” Mirage says, grinning back. “Now, scoot over. I want to hug Prowl too.”


End file.
